“No, it’s not for me.”
Virginia won’t run out of her arthritis pills for a few days. Besides, I need to leave soon. Playing house with Trace Savoy is wreaking havoc on my already confused brain.
“That’ll be all,” he says into the phone, ends the call, and returns to the couch.
“Thanks for dinner.” I stand, tugging on the short hem of my cut-offs. “I’m gonna head out.”
“Stay.” He leans back on the couch, staring up at me.
“Why?”
“Watch a movie with me.”
That’s the last thing I expected him to say. This day just gets weirder and weirder.
“What movie?” I chew the inside of my cheek.
I shouldn’t stay. Any second, something coarse and horrible will vomit from his sexy mouth, and I’ll regret sticking around.
He grabs the remote, and the screen on the wall powers on. “Dirty Dancing.”
My pulse spikes. “Why did you suggest that one?”
“You have the movie poster framed in your bedroom.”
Oh. Duh. “Isn’t it the best movie ever?”
His thumb moves over the remote, his attention on the TV. “I’ve never seen it.”
“No way.” I press a hand against my heart as excitement percolates through my blood. “How in the ever-loving world is that possible?”
“It’s a wonder I’ve made it this far without the experience,” he says dryly.
“No shit.” I trip over his legs in my hurry to climb onto the couch beside him. “Prepare to be blown away.”
And just like that, I’m committed to spending the next hour and forty minutes with Trace Dirty-Dancing-Virgin Savoy.
As he rents the movie, the elevator chimes again. What now?
He hands me the remote and crosses the room to greet whomever steps off the lift. I can’t see around his tall frame, so I crane my neck and lean.
The same three servers sweep through the kitchen, gathering the platters and dirty dishes. But they’re not alone. Someone stands on the other side of Trace. When he shifts, long slender legs come into view. A form-fitting skirt suit encases a curvy body. Dark brown hair falls around slender shoulders. Golden skin glows on a face I’m not thrilled to see.
Marlo Vogt hands him a black gift bag, and as they exchange words too quiet for my ears, her fingers slip around his waist, resting on his hip with familiarity.
My stomach cramps, but I can’t look away. Because I’m a fucking masochist.
In five-inch heels, she’s only an inch or so shorter than him. They look like they belong together. Dressed to the nines. Elegant postures. Perfectly coiffed. Beautiful. I want to gag.
She doesn’t spare me a glance as she returns to the lift with the servers and vanishes from sight.
Trace taps a digital panel on the brick wall. Locking the elevator? Then he joins me on the couch and sets the gift bag on the floor. “Do you want another beer? Mint tea? Coff—?
“Why am I here and not her?” My voice is louder than I intended, drilling, accusing, demanding.
His heated gaze touches my eyes, my throat, and lower, scanning the length of my stiffening body. “I enjoy looking at you.”
I stare at him blankly. He doesn’t want to have sex with me. He thinks I’m messy. But he enjoys looking at me?
“I don’t know what to say to that.” I laugh raggedly, uneasily.
“Don’t say anything.” He starts the movie, and the intro plays to the backdrop of Be My Baby.
He settles in, propping his shiny shoes on the trunk and stretching an arm along the back of the couch behind me. I’m not ready to let go of the conversation he just swept under the rug, but I’m drawn to the TV screen compulsively, additively, absorbed in the movie that defines me.
Scene by scene, I inch toward the edge of the cushion, leaning, bouncing, reciting the words by rote. Yeah, I’m one of those.
Then comes one of my favorites parts, when Baby carries a watermelon and watches Johnny Castle get PG-13 dirty on the dance floor for the first time. I vibrate with the need to jump up and shake my ass through those exact steps.
“You know how to do that?” Trace’s voice shatters my trance.
I startle, twisting to look at him. “What?”
“Can you dance like that?” He nods at the bodies writhing and bumping on the screen.
“Yeah,” I whisper wistfully, turning back to the movie. Boy, can I ever.
My lungs heave. The muscles in my legs burn, and perspiration clings to my nape. But I can’t stop smiling as Nikolai flings me away, spins me back in, and slams me against his damp chest.
His smile’s as huge as mine, because holy shit, we nailed the routine. In one month, we’re going to rock the St. Louis Microfest, taking the main stage with our modern compilation of Dirty Dancing dance scenes.
The acoustics in my studio thunder with the music and the pound of our feet. He wraps an arm around my hips, the other hanging loosely at his side as he jackhammers against me, the fluid thrusts of his pelvis rivaling that of Patrick Swayze. I arch back, hang my head upside down, and XXX grind with the undulation of his ripped body. Then he snaps me back to his chest.
Now for the hard part. With a determined breath, I propel myself upward, lifting my torso and hips while pushing against him. Midway through the jump, I turn myself into a balanced, steel-stiff form. He takes it from there, leveraging my momentum, lifting me above his head, and locking his elbows.
Whew! Excitement fizzes through me as I plant my knees on his shoulders, grip the folds of my pink skirt, and slap the gauzy material wildly around my waist in rhythm with the music.
The crotch of my leotard writhes inches from his face, but that’s not what this is about. He’s grinning up at me, suspending my weight and mouthing the words to Talk Dirty by Jason Derulo.
I’m so consumed in the dance and the music, I don’t hear Cole walk in. I don’t feel him until his arm hooks around my waist and rips me from Nikolai’s shoulders. I don’t see him until his fist flies past me and collides with the other man’s nose.
Blood spurts across Nikolai’s bare chest, and he stumbles back, colliding with the mirror and cupping his face.
“Cole!” The wind whooshes from my lungs, and my knees lock in horror. “What have you done?”
Expression tight and eyes aglow with black fire, he rears back for another punch, hellbent on putting my dance partner through the wall.
My legs propel me forward, and I hurl myself in the path of his strike. I narrowly miss four knuckles in the face as he redirects his fist into the mirror behind Nikolai.
Glass shatters, and Nikolai’s arms come around me, hauling us away from the detonation of testosterone and fury.
I slap the power button on the sound system, plunging the room into a haze of panting, wheezing breaths.
Cole steps toward us, hands flexing at his sides and the cords in his neck stretched taut. “What the fuck—?”
“Don’t come any closer!” I thrust a finger at him and swivel toward Nikolai.